NRLF 


iintumti 


ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


A  CANOPIC  JAR 


Over  the  gods  that  guard  the  funeral-jars, 

Those  mighty  sons  of  Horus, 

Hapi,  Amset,  Duamutef,  Kebehsenuf, 

Are  greater  gods, 

Nephthys,  Isis,  Neith  and  Seket, 

Guarding  the  guarding-gods! 

Over  them  all, 

And  over  all  the  dead, 

The  dead  that  live,  the  dead  that  never  lived, 

Over  the  great  and  greater, 

Over  the  very  small — 

Even  this  little  jar  of  song, 

Dead  dreams  that  will  not  die — 

One  God! 


A  CANOPIC  JAR 

BY 

LEONORA  SPEYER 


"/  hide  the  hidden  thing,  making 
protection  for  Hapi,  who  is  within" 

—SPEECH  OF  NEPHTHYS 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


COPYRIGHT,  1921, 

BY  E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 
All  Eights  Reserved 


Print**  in  the  United  States  of  America 


PS  3537 


C.3 


To  the  Five  Good  Yean — 


469840 


For  permission  to  reprint  certain  of  these 
poems,  the  author's  thanks  are  due  to  the 
courtesy  of  the  Editors  of  Scribner's  Maga 
zine,  The  Century  Magazine,  Contemporary 
Verse,  Touchstone,  Chicago  Poetry,  The 
Nation,  The  Dial,  The  Lyric,  The  Pagan, 
The  Bookman,  The  Bellman,  McCalFs  Maga 
zine,  The  Stratford  Journal,  Poet  Lore,  Smart 
Set,  The  Freeman,  The  New  York  Times, 
Reedy's  Mirror  and  The  Sonnet. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FRIENDS 1 

PAIN 2 

A  CRABBED  SONG  OF  SPRING 3 

DECORATION  DAY 5 

RENDEZVOUS 6 

A  MUTED  WOOD-SONG 8 

A  B  C's  IN  GREEN 9 

SONG 10 

A  GIFT 11 

THE  CONFIDANT 12 

CRICKETS 13 

GARDEN  UNDER  LIGHTNING 14 

THE  BIRCH  IN  THE  LAKE 15 

PATCH  AND  POWDER 16 

THE  LOCUST 17 

SQUALL 18 

THE  NATURALIST  ON  A  JUNE  SUNDAY     ...  19 
SKY  FANCIES: 

FIRST  COMMUNION 21 

NEW  MOON 21 

SKYWAY  ROBBERY 21 

GOLD-FISH         22 

[vii] 


Contents 

PAGE 

THE  PET 23 

A  LEGACY 24 

ENIGMA        25 

SUDDENLY 26 

SUMMER  SORROW 27 

AFTER 28 

THE  HOUR 30 

THE  LAST  MORNING  IN  THE  COUNTRY    ...  31 

TWILIGHT  OF  THE  GODS 32 

AN  OLD  PHOTOGRAPH 33 

NIGHT 34 

To  A  LITTLE  TWELFTH  CENTURY  FIGURE  OF  THE 

CRUCIFIED  CHRIST:  THE  CROSS  MISSING  .  36 

THE  CHINESE  TAPESTRY 37 

THE  SAINT-GAUDENS  STATUE  IN  ROCK  CREEK 

CEMETERY,  WASHINGTON 41 

APRIL  ON  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 42 

SEKHMET  THE   LION-HEADED 44 

To  THE  VICTORS  AND  THE  VANQUISHED   ...  46 

THE  SUMMER  OF  PEACE 4S 

THE  LADDER 49 

THREE  EGYPTIAN  SKETCHES: 

THE    GRAVESTONE    OF  TA-BEK-EN-KHONSU, 

"MISTRESS  OF  THE  HOUSE"     ....  50 

THE  EXPOSED  MUMMY 52 

AT  PERNEB'S  TOMB 53 

LOVER  OF  CHILDREN 54 

[viii] 


Contents 

PAGE 

SIDNEY  DREW,  "MoviE  STAR" 55 

A  TEAR-BOTTLE 56 

THE  "EXTRA  HOUR" 59 

JUDGMENT  DAY 60 

THE  HEART  RECALCITRANT 61 

VICTORY 63 

FIRST  SNOW  ON  THE  HILLS 64 

SPRING  COWARDICE 65 

DRINKING-SONG 66 

A  NOTE  FROM  THE  PIPES 67 

Two  ON  A  HILL    . 68 

FROM  AN  ISLAND 75 

SEA-FOG 76 

BELL-BUOYS 77 

SWALLOWS 78 

GULLS 79 

WHEN  BABA  DIVES 80 

JAZZ  ON  THE  ISLAND 81 

ABSOLUTION 82 

WATER-PLANE  FLIGHT 83 

THE  QUEEN-BEE  FLIES 84 

THE  SILENCE 89 

ANSWER 90 

THE  EGO  CRIES  ITSELF    ...  91 


[fa] 


A  CANOPIC  JAR 


FRIENDS 

GRIEF  shall  not  be  my  friend!     She  shall  not  be 
Companion  of  my  table,  path  or  bed, 
She  shall  not  share  my  salt  nor  break  my  bread, 
Nor  walk  nor  weep  nor  dream  nor  wake  with  me: 
I  will  not  trust  her  mournful  company, 
Nor  listen  to  her  whisperings  of  the  dead, 
Why  should  I  heed  her  somber  eyelid's  red? 
Tears  are  but  chains  and  I,  I  would  be  free! 

For  grief  would  make  a  laggard  of  my  will, 

And  me,  a  puny  thing  of  anguished  need, 

A  memory!     And  I  would  die  at  length, 

Close  to  the  thought  of  you — and  loving  still: 

So  will  I  choose  a  friend  of  stouter  creed, 

The  wingless,  tearless  thing  the  heart  calls  strength. 


PAIN 

PAIN  is  a  beckoning  hand, 
A  voice  that  seems  to  say, 
"This  way!" 

Pain  is  an  opening  window, 
Wide  wings  that  stretch  to  fly; 
Beyond,  the  sky! 

Pain  is  a  light  too  near, 
Blinded,  I  grope  along — 
To  song! 


[21 


A    CRABBED    SONG    OF    SPRING 

SPRING,  I  am  tired! 
Your  brisk  young  buds  and  vigorous  green 
And  all  the  bustle  of  your  clouds  and  winds 
But  add  to  my  great  weariness: 
Ask  the  long  grass  how  heavy  falls  my  foot 
Across   the  excitement   of  the  meadow. 

I  pray  you,  still  your  restless  sprigs  and  sprays 

And  dancing  leaves, 

Trying  their  newest  steps  on  every  bough  and  bush, 

And  tell  the  birds  to  call  their  mates 

More  modestly. 

My  eyes  are  dizzy  with  the  noon's  hot  gold 

And  sudden  purple, 

And  my  ears  ring  with  shouting  yellow,  pink  and 

white, 

And  singing  blue, 
And  green  and  green  and  green! 

Spring,   I   am  sad, 

And  you  but  make  me  sadder: 

There  is  a  heartlessness  about  your  birds  and  flowers, 

[3] 


A  Crabbed  Song  of  Spring 


A  flippancy  of  wing  and  petal! 
They  sip  among  themselves  the  moist,  sweet  air, 
Deep-dipping  bud  and  beak, 
I  think  all  Nature  presses  thirsty  lips 
Against  the  brimming  earth  and  sky- 
But  my  soul  stands  before  an  empty  cup. 

Almost  I   would  unmask  the  mockery  of  this  reju 
venation, 

This  yearly  comedy  of  youth! 
Spring,  sitting  there  in  your  green  cloak, 
You  are  a  gray-haired  woman, 
You  are  as  old  as  I, 
As  sad, 
As  tired! 

But  you  are  brave  and  beautiful 
And  I  will  sit  with  you  a  while: 
Together  we  will  watch  this  pageantry, 
This  flagged  procession  of  gay  promises, 
Fluttering  to  fulfillment. 
This  dreaming — 

But  you  and  I  will  dream  no  more. 

Spring, 

We  are  old. 


[4] 


DECORATION  DAY 

THIS  is  the  day  of  dauntless  memories, 
Hours  that  live  turn  back  to  deathless  hours, 
But  sheltered  in  my  heart  there  lies, 
As  in  a  grave, 
A  memory  serene  and  brave 
That  needs  no  flowers. 

No  valiant  tale  to  stir  the  blood  to  wine — 

Dear  enemy  that  struck  at  me  and  fled! — 

And  yet  the  victory  was  mine, 

As  mine  the  pain, 

And  still  my  heart  resounds  its  gain, 

Its  cherished  dead. 


[5] 


RENDEZVOUS 

BUT  one  more  month  and  I  shall  be 
Wrapt  in  a  shadowed  harmony 
Of  leaves  and  buds  and  crinkly  moss, 
Above  me  tangled  boughs  will   toss, 
And   all   about 
Unfurled  for  me, 
Uncurled  for  me, 
The  fern's  unhurried  rout; 
But  one  more  month — so  soon — 
Wait  for  me,  June,  my  June! 

The  birds,  live  cups  of  singing  wine, 

On  their  tall  stems  of  larch  and  pine, 

Will  brim  for  me  the  glad  day  long 

The  solace  of  their  bubbling  song: 

The  nightingale 

Will  trill  for  me, 

Will  spill  for  me, 

Her  shy,  exultant  grail; 

But  one  more  month — so  soon — 

Wait  for  me,  June,  my  June! 

Bring  me  your  reveling  fields  and  woods, 
Your  hills  and  lakes  of  solemn  moods, 

[6] 


Rendezvous 


Gather  the  stars,  fresh-plucked  and  sweet, 

Scatter  them  there  where  we  two  meet: 

I  bring  to  you, 

Still  near  to  me, 

Still  dear  to  me, 

My  ancient  grief  still  new; 

But  one  more  month — so  soon — 

Wait  for  me,  June,  my  June! 


[7] 


A  MUTED  WOOD-SONG 

I  SHALL  write  a  song  in  the  wood  some  day 
With  a  long,  lush  fern  for  a  pen, 
Dipped  in  the  rhythm  of  bird  and  brook 
And  the  lisping  sound  of  leaves  at  play 
In   the   trees: 

The  boughs  of  the  balsam  will  lean  and  look, 
But  I  shall  not  sing  of  these. 

With  my  waving  fern, 

My  wise,  wild  pen, 

I  shall  write  of  the  hidden  griefs  of  men, 

And  their  hearts  shall  lie  like  an  open  book 

Of  troubled  pages  that  sigh  as  they  turn 

On  my  knee. 

But  of  one  dim  page,  close-writ, 

One  memory — 

Dead  little  song  whose  every  note 

Had  birth  within  my  throat, 

And  every  word  first  in  my  heart  was  heard, 

Its  young  beliefs,  its  lifting  pride,  its  woe — 

I  shall  not  sing  of  it! 

Not  even  the  understanding  wood  shall  know. 

[8] 


A  B  C's  IN  GREEN 

THE  trees  are  God's  great  alphabet: 
With  them  He  writes  in  shining  green 
Across  the  world  His  thoughts  serene. 

He  scribbles  poems  against  the  sky 
With  a   gay,   leafy   lettering, 
For  us  and  for  our  bettering. 

The  wind  pulls  softly  at  His  page, 
And  every  star  and  bird 
Repeats  in  dutiful  delight  His  word, 
And  every  blade  of  grass 
Flutters  to  class. 

Like  a  slow  child  that  does  not  heed, 
I  stand  at  summer's  knees, 
And  from  the  primer  of  the  wood 
I  spell  that  life  and  love  are  good, 
I  learn  to  read. 


[9] 


SONG 

IF  I  could  sing  the  song  of  the  dawn, 
The  carroling  word  of  leaf  and  bird 
And  the  sun-waked  fern  uncurling  there, 
I  would  go  lonely  and  would  not  care. 

If  I  could  sing  the  song  of  the  dusk, 
The  stars  and  moon  of  glistening  June 
Lit  at  the  foot  and  head  of  me, 
The  Spinner  might  break  the  thread  of  me. 

If  I  could  sing  but  the  song  of  love, 
Fill  my  throat  with  each  sounding  note, 
Others  might  kiss  and  clasp  and  cling, 
Mine  be  the  lips  that  would  sing,  would  sing! 


[10] 


A   GIFT 

I  WOKE:— 
Night,  lingering,  poured  upon  the  world 
Of  drowsy  hill  and  wood  and  lake 
Her  moon-song, 

And  the  breeze  accompanied  with  hushed  fingers 
On  the  birches. 

Gently  the  dawn  held  out  to  me 
A  golden  handful  of  bird's-notes. 


THE  CONFIDANT 

THE  wood  is  talking  in  its  sleep. 
Have  a  care,  trees! 

You  are  heard  by  the  brook  and  the  breeze 
And  the  listening  lake; 
And  some  of  the  birds  are  awake, 
I  know. 
Green,  garrulous  wood,  I   trusted  you  so! 


[12] 


CRICKETS 

ALL  night  the  crickets  chirp, 
Like  little  stars  of  twinkling  sound 
In  the  dark  silence. 

They  sparkle  through  the  stillness 

With  a  crisp  rhythm: 

They  lift  the  shadows  on  their  tiny  voices. 

But  at  the  flickering  note  of  birds  that  wake, 
Flashing  from  tree  to  tree  till   all  the  wood  is  lit 
With  their  golden  coloratura  of  dawn, 
The  cricket-stars  fade  softly, 
One  by  one. 


[13] 


GARDEN   UNDER  LIGHTNING 
(GHOST-STORY) 

OUT  of  the  storm  that  muffles  shining  night 
Flash  roses  ghastly-sweet, 
And  lilies  far  too  pale. 
There  is  a  pang  of  livid  light, 
A  terror  of  familiarity, 
I  see  a  dripping  swirl  of  leaves  and  petals 
That  I  once  tended  happily, 
Borders  of  flattened,  frightened  little  things, 
And  writhing  paths  I  surely  walked  in  that  other  life 
Day? 

My  specter-garden  beckons  to  me, 
Gibbers  horribly — 
And  vanishes! 


[14] 


THE  BIRCH  IN  THE  LAKE 

YOU  lie  there, 
Too  still  beneath  the  waters, 
More  than  a  reflection, 
Less  than  a  tree: 
Your  limbs  gleam  upward, 

Your   dank  leaves  are  like  the  hair  of  a  drowned 
woman. 

No  longer  do  you  know  the  touch  of  spring, 
Nor  will  the  birds  build  their  round  nurseries 
Between  your  white  fingers. 

The  wood  has  forgotten  you, 
The  breezes  have  forgotten. 

But  the  moon  mourns, 

Slipping  a  silver  shroud  about  you 

Pitifully, 

As  you  lie,  still  beautiful, 

In  your   unhallowed  grave. 

Poor  suicide! 

[15] 


PATCH  AND  POWDER 

LADY  MEADOW, 
Coquetting  there  with  noon, 
You  balance  and  sway  your  rustling  trees 
Like  crisp  brocade  hoop-skirts. 

Over  your  curling  gold  of  buttercups 

You  powder  thick  the  daisy-petals, 

And  near  the  pond, 

Iris-lashed,  heaven-reflected — 

Yet  not  too  near — 

You  flaunt  serenely, 

One  black  cow, 

Reclining; 

Much  as  a  Royal  favorite  wears 

Her  patch, 

Beneath  the  smiling  blue  of  her  arch  eye. 


[16] 


THE    LOCUST 

ITS  hot  voice  sizzles  from  some  cool  tree 
Near-by : 

It  seems  to  burn  its  way  through  the  air 
Like  a  small,  pointed  flame  of  sound 
Sharpened  on  the  ecstatic  edge  of  sunbeams. 


[17] 


SQUALL 

THE  squall  sweeps  gray-winged  across  the  oblit 
erated  hills, 

And  the  startled  lake  seems  to  run  before  it; 
From  the  wood  comes  a  clamor  of  leaves, 
Tugging  at  the  twigs, 
Pouring  from  the  branches, 
And  suddenly  the  birds  are  still. 

Thunder  crumples  the  sky, 
Lightning  tears  at  it. 

And  now  the  rain! 

The  rain — thudding — implacable — 

The  wind,  reveling  in  the  confusion  of  great  pines! 

And  a  silver  sifting  of  light, 

A  coolness; 

A  sense  of  summer  anger  passing, 

Of  summer  gentleness  creeping  nearer — 

Penitent,  tearful, 

Forgiven ! 


[18] 


THE  NATURALIST  ON  A  JUNE  SUNDAY 

MY  old  gardener  leans  on  his  hoe, 
Tells  me  the  way  that  green  things  grow; 
"Coin'  to  church?    Why  no! 
All  Nature's  church  enough  for  me!" 
Says  he. 

"Preachin'  o'  flower  and  choir  o'  bird 

An'  the  wind  passin'  the  plate! 

Sweetest  service  ever  I  heard — 

That's  straight! 

Eternal  Rest? 

What  for,  friend? 

Gimme  a  swarm  o'  bees  to  tend, 

A-honey-makin'  world  without  end; 

Scoop  'em  right  up  and  find  the  queen, 

They'd  not  sting  me — the  bees  ain't  mean ! " 

"Heaven's  all  right! 
But  still,  I'll  kinder  miss 
The  Lady  Lunar  moth  at  night, 
And  the  White  Wanderer  butterfly 
Crawlin'  out  of  its  chrysalis! 
I  want  my  heaven  human  too — 
[19] 


The  Naturalist  on  a  June  Sunday 

Twixt  me  an'  you — 

Why  I'd  just  love  to  see 

A  chipmunk  hop  up  to  the  Lord 

An'  eat  right  out  o'  His  dread  Hand 

Same  as  it  does  to  me! 

Eternity — eternity — 

Don't  it  sound  grand? 

But  say, 

What's  a  matter  with  to-day? 

Just  step  into  the  woods  an'  take  a  look — 

Ain't  that  a  page  o'  teachin'  from  the  Holy  Book? 

'He  that  hath  eyes  to  see 

An'  ears  to  hear — 

I  guess  God's  pretty  near! 

He'll  understand,  I  know, 

Why  I  ain't  in  no  hurry  to  let  June  go!" 

My  old  gardener  turns  to  his  hoe, 
Helping  the  green  things  how  to  grow, 
"The  Missus  can  go  to  church  for  me, 
Amen!"  says  he. 


[20] 


SKY  FANCIES 

FIRST  COMMUNION 

THE  little  clouds  are  all  in  white 
To-day: 

They  kneel  at  God's  high  blue  altar 
To  receive  the  moon. 

NEW  MOON 

The  baby  moon  lies  curled  up  on  a  cloud's  lap, 

Kicking  its  golden  heels: 

I  think  I  hear  it  crowing  to  the  stars. 

SKYWAY  ROBBERY 

Night,  leaning  there  upon  the  hills, 
What  robber  cloud  has  dared? 

The  great  white  pearl  you  wore, 

Hung  from  your  glittering  chain  of  stars, 

Is  gone: 

And  in  its  place  a  red  wound  drips 

Its  anguished  light. 

[21] 


Sky  Fancies 


GOLD-FISH 


The  stars  are  like  gold-fish  in  a  deep   blue  bowl, 
Swimming  round  and  round  the  centuries. 

Sometimes  one  dies  of  the  hot  summer  night; 
I  watch  it  falling — 
Fading — 

And  I  watch  the  others, 
Floating  in  their  blue  bowl, 
Eternally  golden, 
Immortally  indifferent. 


[22] 


THE  PET 

HOPE  gnawed  at  my  heart  like  a  hungry  rat, 
Ran  in  and  out  of  my  dreams  high-walled, 
I  heard  its  scampering  feet: 
"Pretty  rat— pretty  rat—!"  I  called, 
And  crumbled  it  songs  to  eat. 

Hope  peeped  at  me  from  behind  my  dreams, 
Nibbled  the  crumbs  of  my  melodies, 
Grew  tame  and  sleek  and  fat: 
Oh,  but  my  heart  knew  ease 
To  feel  the  teeth  of  my  rat! 

Then  came  a  night — and  then  a  day — 
I  heard  soft  feet  that  scuttled  away — 
Rats  leave  the  sinking  ship,  they  say. 


[23] 


A  LEGACY 

MY  soul  was  silent  with  delight 
Too  long! 

And  then,  after  we  parted, 
Love  found  me  in  the  night, 
Wandering  bitter-hearted, 
And  touched  my  lips  with  song; 

That   I,   silent   no   more,   might   sound    your   praise. 
And  all  the  sweetness  of  your  ways, 
Find  melodies  for  my  great  wrong — 
And  so  live  tunefully  the  tuneless  days. 


[24] 


ENIGMA 

IT  would  be  easy  to  forgive, 
If  I  could  but  remember; 
If  I  could  hear,  lost  love  of  mine, 
The  music  of  your  cruelties, 
Shaking  to  sound  the  silent  skies, 
Could  voice  with   them   their  song   divine, 
Red  with  pain's  leaping  ember: 
It  would  be  easy  to  forgive, 
If  I  could  but  remember. 

It  would  be  easy  to  forget, 

If  I  could  find  lost  Sorrow; 

If  I  could  kiss  her  plaintive  face, 

And  break  with  her  her  bitter  bread, 

Could  share  again  her  woeful  bed, 

And  know  with  tears  her  pale  embrace. 

Make  yesterday,  to-morrow: 

It  would  be  easy  to  forget, 

If  I  could  find  lost  Sorrow. 


[25] 


SUDDENLY 

SUDDENLY  flickered  a  flame, 
Suddenly  fluttered  a  wing: 
What,  can  a  dead  bird  sing? 
Somebody    spoke   your    name. 

Suddenly  fluttered  a  wing, 
Sounded  a  voice,  the  same, 
Somebody  spoke  your  name: 
Oh,  the  remembering! 

Sounded  a  voice,  the  same, 
Song   of   the   heart's   wild   Spring, 
Oh,  the  remembering: 
Which  of  us  was  to  blame? 

Song  of  the  heart's   wild   Spring, 
Wings  that  still  flutter,  lame, 
Which  of  us  was  to  blame? — 
God,  the  slow  withering! 


[26] 


SUMMER  SORROW 

WHAT  shall  meadow  hold  to  please  me, 
Spreading  wide  its  scented  waving, 
How  shall  quiet  mosses  ease  me, 
Or  the  night- wind  cool  my  craving? 
Hill  and  hedgerow,  cloud-sweet  sky, 
Echo   our   good-by. 

Bud  unplucked  and  leaf  a-quiver, 
Bird  that  lifts  a  tuneless  trilling, 
Restless  dream  of  brook  and  river, 
All  June's  cup  a  wasted  spilling — 
You  and  I  so  thirsty -hearted ! — 
Summer  knows  us  parted. 


[27] 


AFTER 

I  WILL  not  walk  in  the  wood  to-night, 
I  will  not  stand  by  the  water's  edge 
And  see  day  lie  on  the  dusk's  bright  ledge 
Until  it  turn,  a  star  at  its  breast, 
To  rest. 

I  will  not  see  the  wide-flung  hills 

Closing  darkly  about  my  grief, 

I  wore  a  crown  of  their  lightest  leaf, 

But  now  they  press  like  a  cold,  blue  ring, 

Imprisoning. 

I  dare  not  meet  that  caroling  blade, 
Jauntily  drawn  in  the  sunset  pine, 
Stabbing  me  with  its  thrust  divine, 
Knowing  my  naked,  aching  need, 
Till  I  bleed. 

Sheathe  your  song,  invincible  bird, 
Strike  not  at  me  with  that  flashing  note, 
Have  pity,  have  pity,  persistent  throat, 
Deliver  me  not  to  your  dread  delight 
To-night! 

[28] 


After 


I  am  afraid  of  the  creeping  wood, 
I  am  afraid  of  the  furtive  trees, 
Hiding  behind  them,  memories, 
Ready  to  spring,  to  clutch,  to  tear, 
Wait  for  me  there. 


[29] 


THE  HOUR 

THIS  is  the  paling  hour  lovers  know, 
When  dawn's  white  bells  swing  high: 
— Beloved,  I  must  go! — 
—Ah  no!- 
— Good-by — good-by ! — 

This  is  the  hour  when  dawn's  unpitying  bells  ring 

clear, 

And  lovers  part: 

So  am  I  almost  glad  you  are  not  here, 
Heart  of  my  given  heart! 


[30] 


THE  LAST  MORNING  IN  THE  COUNTRY 

DAWN  slips  within  my  room  to  say  good-by; 
Buffeted,  bruised,  by  autumn  rain 
All  night, 

While  I  lay  sleeping,  held  to  dreams,  again 
She  comes  from  out  the  violated  sky, 
Dragging  her  tarnished  light. 

With  dim  leaves  drooping,  hanging  all  about 

Her  nlisty  face,  her  eyes  still  wet, 

She  stands 

Disconsolate  beneath  her  veils — and  yet 

Bravely  she  spills  one  last  bird's  note  from  out 

Her  summer-empty  hands. 


TWILIGHT  OF  THE  GODS 

TO-NIGHT 
Dusk  shuddered  away  from  the  autumn  sky 
Too  cruel-bright: 
Into  the  comfort  of  the  West 
She  shrank,  a  star  at  her  shadowy  breast, 
Glowing  and  deep  and  red, 
Out  of  the  day,  to  grieve  and  die, 
Hanging  her  head. 

But  I 

Will  wear  my  one-time  bliss  of  you 

More  valiantly; 

Pinned  to  my  gown  like  a  meadow-flower 

Or  the  proud,  red  gem  of  my  woman's  dower, 

And  never  its  wound  revealed — 

The  aching,  eloquent  kiss  of  you, 

Unhealed. 


[32] 


AN  OLD  PHOTOGRAPH 

IT  is  not  you  I  kiss — not  you! — 
Coming  upon  you  suddenly, 
Faded  as  those  swift  hours  we  knew, 
The  dawns  and  dusk,  we  two! 

I  kiss  another  face  I  see — 
0  little  face,  so  young,  so  true, 
Shining  through  that  pale  effigy! — 
The  face  mine  used  to  be. 


NIGHT 

DARK  temple! 
I  stand  before 
Your  black-flung  door, 
Beggared  by  day, 
Assailed  by  thieving  hours  all  the  way. 

Here  am  I  safe  from  noon's  hostility 

And  the  sun's  buffeting, 

Those  brazen  rods  that  bruised  and  blinded  me: 

I  seek  your  sanctuary,  night! 

Through  your  wide-arching  silences  I  bring 

My  broken  silences  of  soul 

To  be  made  whole, 

I  bring  my  wounds  of  light. 

Along  your  aisles  I  drop  my  dragging  pride, 
And  toss  my  tattered  words  aside — 
Garments  I  need  no  longer  wear — 
Behind  me  close  dim  gates: 
O  dome  of  all  oblivion, 
Where  living  pain  and  dead  are  one, 
Pale  ghosts  within  a  paler  prayer, 
[34] 


Night 

Wrapped  in  my  nakedness  I  creep 
Up  to  your  altars  of  absolving  sleep, 
Where  a  great  waking  waits. 

From  the  sky's  shadowy  tower  sounds  the  moon, 

Calling  to  dreams — 

Swing  clearer,  silver  bell,  swing  higher! — 

A  myriad  music  glows  and  gleams, 

I  hear  the  stars  intone 

In  shining  choir: 

Now — soon — 

Shall   I   wander  those  dim  cloisters  of  my  dream's 

desire ; 
And  not  alone. 


F351 


TO  A  LITTLE  TWELFTH  CENTURY  FIGURE 

OF   THE   CRUCIFIED   CHRIST:   THE 

CROSS  MISSING 

1  II  THERE  is  your  cross,  poor  homeless  One?     I  see 
V  V    The  piteous  stretching  of  your  hands  and  feet. 
This  is  the  gesture,  somber  and  complete, 
In  bloodless  bronze,  of  your  long  agony; 
And  where  the  nails  that  held  you  to  the  tree? 
Here  are  the  faint  stigmata,  cruel-sweet, 
And  in  my  heart  there  sounds  the  hammer's  beat: 
0  Son  of  God,  be  crucified  in  me! 

Come,  walk  my  Calvary  of  womanhood, 

Taste  the  wild  hyssop  of  my  hidden  tear, 

Wear  my  gay  crown  and  know  my  laughing  spear, 

Call  Magdalene  in  purple  to  my  rood: 

Hang,  Christ  that  died  for  love,  upon  my  pain, 

Between  pale  thieves,  the  dreams  that  dream  in  vain! 


[36] 


THE  CHINESE  TAPESTRY 

THE  Chinese  tapestry  smolders  on  my  wall  like  the 
blue  smoke  of  old  Chinese  fires.     It  is  peopled 
with  little  warriors  and  their  wives,   and   pompous 
horses  prance  mightily  across  the  glory  of  its  woven 
story. 

Dark  faces  glare  at  one  another,  banners  hurl  their 
folds.  Spears  threaten  in  and  out  of  a  tangle  of 
willow-tree  and  almond-blossom,  tower  and  battle 
ment  and  castle  gate: 

0  faded,  silken  tale  of  faded  vengeance,  pride  and 
hate! 

On  come  the  warriors  in  their  brocaded  coats 
— they  sit  their  red  saddles  well!  I  hear  a  clash,  a 
shouting  in  an  unknown  tongue — war-cry  of  Ming  or 
Han  or  Sung — tiny  swords  buzz  like  darting  wasps 
steel-winged ; 

And  women  peep  from  out  their  pointed  tent  and 
canopied  wheel-chair,  lolling  complacent  there,  and 
lift  their  babes  that  they  may  better  hear  the  loud, 
proud  sound  of  battling  sires: 
[37] 


The  Chinese  Tapestry 


And  the  Chinese  tapestry  smolders  on  like  the  blue 
smoke  of  Chinese  fires. 

**«*«** 

There  is  a  strangeness  of  sweet  smelling  in  my  room 
that  is  not  of  bud  nor  bloom.  My  garden  hangs  its 
head  before  a  presence  mocking  it,  laughing  from  the 
wall,  the  perfume  woven  in  my  tapestry,  perfume  of 
mystery,  perfume  of  China. 

The  heavy-lidded  East  is  speaking  and  the  lilies 
on  my  table  droop  and  die. 

Each  morning  I  find  a  withered  havoc  in  the  room 
where  hangs  the  Chinese  tapestry.  Each  morning  the 
presence  waits  for  me  there  and  clings — 

Close,  violent,  insistent. 

Once  at  night  I  felt  behind  me  a  stealthy  moving  of 
the  door,  something  seemed  pulling  it  toward  the 
latch,  and  the  perfume  slipping,  sliding,  along  the 
floor,  reaching  toward  me  in  the  dark! 

How  fumbling  my  fingers  at  the  lamp — how  slow 
the  sodden  wick — 

*#****» 

But  with  the  glimmer  and  the  glow  I   got  away — 

From  what? 

[38] 


The  Chinese  Tapestry 


I  do  not  know. 

******* 

Woven  perfume!  You  sing  to  me  across  the  mists 
of  race  and  creed,  the  clouds  of  time,  a  little  tune  of 
unknown  key  that  is  not  unmelodious.  You  hang  your 
rhythms  about  me  like  a  robe  too-heavily  embroidered 
with  desire;  you  wreathe  me  in  the  red,  unfolding  fire 
of  poppy-flowers,  whispering  of  their  unhurried 
dreams  and  strange,  mad  ceremonies  of  the  senses. 
My  drowsy  peace  seems  but  an  emptiness  of  inert 
hours  and  my  content,  an  ignorance! 

The  very  moon  looks  smug  to-night,  casting  its 
monotone  of  patterned  shade  and  light  on  my  trimmed 
paths  and  lawns  and  roses'  trained  delight! 

And  yet — 

This  is  the  moon  that  rocked  me  as  a  child,  my  mild 
and  honest  moon,  and  these  the  stars  that  spangled 
through  my  nursery-window: 

Not  your  hot  lantern  swinging  in  too  purple  skies 
and  all  its  whirling  fireflies! 

I  will  not  listen  to  your  story  nor  to  the  song  you 
sing,  0  rustling  rainbow  thing  of  ancient  warp  and 
woof: 

[39] 


The  Chinese  Tapestry 


No,  I  will  put  you  from  me — very  gently— 

Will  fold  you  in  my  cedar-chest — 

Forget   you!     And   the   discomfort   of   your   beauty! 

Sleep,  warriors  of  bright-recording  thread,  long 
dead,  passionate  and  pagan  heroes  of  a  slow-crumbled 
loom,  sleep — close  to  your  slant-eyed  women: 

Dream  your  unbroken  dream  divine: 

Pray  to  your  gods! 
Pray  to  your  gods! 
And  let  me  pray  to  mine. 


THE  SAINT-GAUDENS  STATUE  IN 
ROCK    CREEK    CEMETERY,    WASHINGTON 

ARE  there  no  tears  for  other  hearts  to  shed? 
Those  heavy  eyes  have  drained  the  world  of 

grief, 

And  yet  no  solace  found,  no  drear  relief, 
Such  as  my  heart  would  seek,  and  find,  I  know, 
Had  I  been  given  the  weight  of  that  vast  woe, 
And  wept  through  pain  to  peace!    But  you,  instead, 
Have  drowned  all  healing  in  a  shoreless  sea 
Of  unforgiven  wrong,  whose  every  breath 
Lifts  windy  clamor  through  the  soul's  hushed  space, 
Fanning  to  greater  grief,  to  swifter  glow, 
The  flame  that  smolders  still  in  that  bronze  face, 
Sadder   than   life,   and   sadder   far   than   death, 
Because  of  love  renounced  and  joy  to  be, 
And  faith  and  hope  and  immortality. 


[41] 


APRIL  ON  THE  BATTLEFIELDS 

APRIL  now  walks  the  fields  again, 
Trailing  her  leaves 

And  holding  all  her  buds  against  her  heart: 
Wrapt  in  her  clouds  and  mists 
She  walks, 
Groping  her  way  among  the  graves  of  men. 

The  green  of  earth  is  differently  green, 

A  dreadful  knowledge  trembles  in  the  grass 

And  little  wide-eyed  flowers  die  too  soon: 

There  is  a  stillness  here — 

After  a  terror  of  all  raving  sound — 

And  birds  sit  close  for  comfort 

On  broken  boughs. 

April,  thou  grief! 

What  of  thy  sun  and  glad,  high  wind, 
Thy  lifting  hills  and  woods  and    eager  brooks, 
Thy  thousand-petaled  hopes? 
The  sky  forbids  thee  sorrow,  April! 
And  yet, 

I  see  thee  walking  listlessly, 
Across  those  scars  that  once  were  pregnant  sod, 
[42] 


April  on  the  Battlefields 


Those  graves, 

Those  stepping-stones  from  life  to  life. 

Death  is  an  interruption  between  two  heart-beats, 
That  I  know- 
Yet  know  not  how  I  know — 
But  April  mourns, 
Trailing  her  leaves, 
The  passion  of  her  leaves, 
Across  the  passion  of  those  fearful  fields. 

Yes,  all  the  fields! 

No  barrier  here, 

No  challenge  in  the  night, 

No  stranger-land, 

No  foe! 

She  passes  with  her  perfect  countersign, 

Her  green, 

She  wanders  in  her  garden, 

Dropping   her   buds   like   tears, 

Spreading  her  lovely  grief  upon  the  graves  of  men. 


[43] 


SEKHMET  THE  LION-HEADED* 

IN  the  dark  night  I  heard  a  purring, 
Near  me  something  was  stirring. 

A  voice,  deep-throated,  spoke: 

I  litter  armies  for  all  easts  and  wests 

And  norths  and  souths: 

They  suckle  my  girl -goddess  breasts, 

And  my  fierce  milk  drips  from  their  mouths. 

The  voice  sang: 

I  do  not  kill!    I,  Sekhmet  the  Lion-headed,  I! 
But  between  my  soft  hands  they  die. 

I  asked: 

0  Sekhmet,  Lion-headed  one, 

How  long  shall  warring  be? 

And  Sekhmet  deigned  to  make  reply: 

Eternally! 

•Egyptian  goddess  of  war  and  strife. 

[44] 


Sekhmet  the  Lion-Headed 


Bold  in  my  faith  I   grew: 

Dread  goddess-cat,  you  lie! 
Warring  shall  cease. 
My  God  of  love  is  greater  far 
Than  you. 

How  gentle  was  the  voice  of  Sekhmet  then; 

He  of  the  Star? 

He  Whom  they  called  the  Prince  of  Peace — 

And  slew? 

And  slew  again — and  yet  again? 

Ah  yes! — she  said. 

And  all  about  my  bed 

The  night  grew  laughing-red: 

Sekhmet  I  did  not  see, 

But  in  that  bleeding  dusk  I  heard 

How  Sekhmet  purred. 


[45] 


TO  THE  VICTORS  AND  THE  VANQUISHED 

BEYOND  disputed,  hungry  lands 
Waits  in  its  radiant  calm  a  Place 
That  knows  the  blossoming  touch  of  two  scarred  Feet: 
There  enemies  shall  meet 
After  the  soul  affright  has  passed, 
And  face  to  face 
And  hands  in  hands, 
They  shall  find  truth  at  last, 
Look  deep  into  each  other's  eyes, 
God-wise. 

Think  of  that  Place,  ye  brave  and  tired  men, 
Be  kind  again. 

There  is  a  victory  in  dark  defeat, 

Sublime,   complete, 

The  triumph  over  self  and  fear  and  death. 

Ye  conquered!     Draw   a   free,   proud  breath, 

Lift  up  your  heads  to  peace,  for  ye 

Have  won  that  victory. 

There  is  defeat  in  gladdest  victory, 
And  shame  and  woe, 

[46] 


To  the  Victors  and  the  Vanquished 

If  still   the  victor   hate. 

Ye  conquerors!    Stand  nobly  at  the  gate 

Of  broken  hopes,  pass  in  on  gentle  feet, 

Salute  the  one-time  foe: 

Be  great,  superbly  great, 

Lest  in  this  mighty  hour  ye  shall  know 

That  mightier  defeat! 

Victor  and  vanquished,  brave  and  tired  men, 
Take  love  unto  your  hearts  again. 


[47] 


THE  SUMMER  OF  PEACE 

SUMMER  comes  to  the  stricken  earth. 
Lays  clement  fingers  of  bud  and  leaf 
On  broken  hedge  and  field's  brown  dearth 
And  the  bare  hills'  rocky  grief; 
Brings  her  comfort  of  May  and  June, 
Pours  on  red  wounds  the  blackbird's  tune, 
Bids  with  her  gallant,  imperious  green 
Anger  and  vengeance  and  fevered  hate 
Abate. 

Deep  in  my  heart  is  a  faded  pain 

None  knows: 

Summer,  put  there  a  rose 

Red  as  its  one-time  scar! 

Bid  it  flame  to  a  grief  again, 

Bid  it  sing  like  the  morning  star — 

Shining  song  of  a  fresh  young  woe 

That  none  shall  know — 

Spread   there  the  blossoms   of  splendid   regret, 

I  do  not  want  to  forget! 


[48] 


THE  LADDER 

I  HAD  a  sudden  vision  in  the  night — 
I  did  not  sleep,  I  dare  not  say  I  dreamed — 
Beside  my  bed  a  pallid  ladder  gleamed 
And  lifted  upward  to  the  sky's  dim  height: 
And  every  rung  shone  strangely  in  that  light, 
And  every  rung  a  woman's  body  seemed, 
Outstretched,    and    down    the    sides    her    long    hair 

streamed, 
And  you — you  climbed  that  ladder  of  delight! 

You  climbed,  sure-footed,  naked  rung  by  rung, 
Clasped  them  and  trod  them,  called  them  by  their 

name, 

And  my  name  too  I  heard  you  speak  at  last; 
You  stood  upon  my  breast  the  while  and  flung 
A  hand  up  to  the  next!     And  then — oh  shame — 
I  kissed  the  foot  that  bruised  me  as  it  passed. 


[49] 


Three   Egyptian   Sketches 
(Written  at  the  Metropolitan  Museum) 

THE  GRAVESTONE  OF  TA-BEK-EN-KHONSU, 
"MISTRESS  OF  THE  HOUSE." 

THE  stela  of  Ta-Bek-en-Khonsu  shows  her 
After  death, 

Standing  in  plaintive  profile 
Before  Osiris,  lord  of  all  Abydos, 
And  red-robed   Isis; 
And  in  her  slim  brown  hand  her  heart, 
For  by  that  heart  Ta-Bek-en-Khonsu  shall  be  judged. 

All  this  the  hieroglyphs  make  plain, 

The  little  birds  and  serpents  and  many  zigzag  lines, 

Moving  in  quaint  procession  through  the  centuries. 

So  would  I  stand  at  last, 
Holding  my  heart  for  judgment, 
Nor  fear  my  judge! 

Tell  me,  Ta-Bek-en-Khonsu, 
Daughter  of  many  priests, 
What  said  Osiris? 

[50] 


The  Gravestone  of  Ta-Bek-en-Khonsu 

And  did  the  pale  Isis  smile? 

I  dare  to  think  my  God  will  call  my  name: 
Mary  will  smile  on  me, 
I  dare  believe! 


[51] 


THE  EXPOSED  MUMMY 

RIPPED  from  the  comfort  of  his  painted  coffin 
And  his  priest's  wrappings, 
That  guard  his  soul  from  harm, 
He  lies  in  shriveled  nakedness  under  a  slab  of  glass: 
Poor  holy  man! 

And  with  black-crusted,  skinny  hands 

He  pulls  his  crumbling  linen  up  his  loins 

In  somber  modesty. 

Not  all  the  long  three  thousand  years  of  sun-gold 

Thebes, 

The  molten  closeness  of  his  sacred  tomb, 
Have  shrunk  and  withered  him 
As  this  slow,  idle  fire  of  ribald  eyes 
Day  after  day. 


[52] 


AT  PERNEB'S  TOMB 

SOUL  of  Perneb — let  me  pass  that  narrow  door! 
"Your  tomb,"  say  you? 
How  so,  proud  dignitary? 
This  tomb  was  purchased  by  the  Museum, 
From  the  Egyptian  Government, 
Was  bought  and  paid  for! 
It  is  their  property 
And  I  am  welcome  here. 

I  fear  you  not, 

In  your  curled  wig  and  beard 

And  stiff -starched  little  kilt; 

Nor  yet  those  rows  of  friends  and  relatives, 

Gesticulating  there  upon  your  scribbled  walls! 

This  is  not  Memphis, 

Nor  the  Fifth  Dynasty, 

Old  Perneb! 

Look  you  without: 

Behold   Fifth  Avenue, 

The  mighty  street  of  gods  that  are  not  yours, 

In  this  the  year  of  grace, 

Nineteen-nineteen ! 

[53] 


LOVER  OF  CHILDREN 

WHEN  my  little  girl  plays  Beethoven  Sonatas, 
The  big,  black  Steinway  flashes  all  its  teeth  at 

her 

In  a  broad,  good-natured  grin: 
And  suddenly 
I  hear  a  deep,  rumbling,  beautiful  roar  of  laughter. 


[54] 


SIDNEY  DREW,   "MOVIE-STAR" 

TO-DAY  my  children  came  to  me 
"Sidney  Drew's  dead!" 
They  said. 

I  hope  that  Sidney  Drew  can  see, 
Even  from  far  eternity 
Beyond  these  pallid  April  skies, 
The  tribute  of  my  children's  eyes. 


[55] 


A  TEAR-BOTTLE 

THIS  empty  little  flask, 
Unbroken  by  the  weight  of  years, 
The  mold  of  sepulcher  still  clinging  to  its  side, 
Where  it  has   lightly  lain 
In  brittle  pride, 
Once  brimmed  hot  tears: 

Once  held  the  sealed-up  sobs  of  shattered  dreams, 
The  salty  dew  of  pain — 
How  like  a  jewel  it  gleams, 
Mixed  with  the  moon's  frank  gold  again. 

Where  are  those  tears  to-day, 

That  brine  of  grief? 

Kind,  conquering  relief 

Of  stoic  time  tramping  its  stoic  way! 

I  wonder  so 

How  eyes  that  looked  on  death 

Could  weep  those  ordered  funeral -tears, 

The  heart  could  guide  its  anguish  how  to  flow 

Toward  the  tear-bottle's  brim, 

Extended  deftly  there, 

This   mustered   stream   for   her,   for   him, 

[56] 


A  Tear-Bottle 


This  conserve  of  despair! 

— "0  love,  0  my  lost  love!     Thrice-cursed  gods! 

O  sweetest  Alcibiades, 

Never  to  see  thee  more! 

Bring  me,  dear  Phrynia,  I  beg, 

Another  bottle,  please — /" 

This  one  floods  o'er! — 

What  if  the  dole, 

Mute  protest  of  the  soul, 

Should  prove  too  vast  for  tear  benumbed  to  fall? 

Did  relatives  declare, 

— "She  does  not  care! 

She  does  not  mourn  at  all! 

See  now  the  bottle,  filled  but  grudging-half — "? 

Had  they  no  humor  then,  these  Greeks, 

Did  no  one  laugh? 

0  bottled  widow's  woe, 
Standing  in  ostentatious  row 
Within  the  gloom 

Of  dear  departed's  tomb! 
Evaporated  lover's  grief! 
All  love  is  bitter-brief, 

1  know. 


[57] 


A  Tear-Bottle 


But  in  my  breast, 

Deep — deep — 

I  hear  the  beat  of  my  tear-bottle, 

Throbbing  the  tears  I  will  not  weep. 

And  when  I  die, 

I  think  that  it  will  lie 

And  crumble  into  calm,  cool  dust  with  me, 

Dust  of  the  long  road  leading  to  eternity, 

Holding  its  tears  unshed, 

Still  flowing  for  my  dead. 


THE  "EXTRA  HOUR" 

(They  put  back  the  clocks  at  two  A.M.) 

TO-NIGHT,  I  think  each  sleepy  clock 
Will  lift  a  pedant's  protest  to  the  skies 
From  many  a  town's  high  tower: 
— Tick-tock — tick-lock — 
Rude  hands  presume  to  put  us  back — 
Tick-tack- 
One  hour! — 

Time  will  not  wait,  they  say, 

Nor  sun: 

Yet  is  this  vast  thing  done? 

Shall  the  slow  day 

Submit,  the  calm  moon  cower? 

0  shadowy  wings  that  lean  in  flight, 

0  night! 

Before  your  star-eyed  birds  are  flown, 

Before  the  dawn  shall  flower 

Its  wide,  inexorable  buds  of  light, 

Clasped  lovers  shall  have  known 

That  added  hour! 

[59] 


JUDGMENT  DAY 

I  THINK  my  sins,  now  wandering  restless  ways, 
Will  find  at  last  the  waiting  Judgment-seat, 
Will  shake  and  shatter  at  that  quiet  Gaze! 
All  but  one  sin — a  sin  so  strange,  so  sweet, 
That  all  the  saints  will  stand  in  rows  and  wonder, 
As  happily  it  buds  across  high  space, 
Climbs  fearless  up  those  clapping  walls  of  thunder, 
And  blossoms  whitely  in  a  kind,  still  Face. 


[60] 


THE  HEART  RECALCITRANT 

DOES  the  heart  grieve  on, 
After  its  grief  is  gone 
Like  a  slow  ship  moving 
Across  its  own  oblivion? 

Heart!    Heart!    Do  you  not  know 

That  I  have  conquered  pain, 

Have  parted  from  my  woe? 

That  my  proud  feet  have  found  their  path  again, 

After   the   pathless  heights — long   after — 

And  that  my  hands  have  learned  to  bless 

Their  overflowing  emptiness, 

My  lips  grown  reconciled  to  laughter? 

O  laggard  of  dead  roads, 

0  heart  that  will  not  heal  nor  break 

Nor  yet  forget! 

Tell  me,  whose  tears  are  these 

That  greet  me  as  I  wake? 

Why  is  my  pillow  wet? 

Red  rebel,  is  it  you 
That  lifted  this  wild  dew 

[61] 


The  Heart  Recalcitrant 


Like  banners  from  my  arid   dreams, 
That  roused  this  ember 
From  exiled  ashes, 
Calling  me  to  remember? 

Speak,  is  it  you  that  wept 
Upon  my  pillow  while  I  slept? 

Does  the  heart  then  grieve  on, 
After  its  grief  is  gone, 
A  treasure-ship  that  journeys 
Across  its  own  oblivion? 


[62] 


VICTORY 

DAY  is  the  heart's  red  field, 
And  many  an  anguish  there 
Is  lost  or  won, 

And  many  a  hope  lies  hopeless  in  the  sun; 
But  night,  the  conqueror  kind, 
Spreads  its  blessed  treaty  of  the  stars, 
Where  the  heart's  peace  is  signed. 


Under  the  moon's  white 

I  meet  my  ambushed  dreams, 

I  see  the  foe, 

Whom  I  have  faced  and  put  to  flight,  I  know, 

Yielding  his  hosts  to  me; 

And  in  strong,  vanquished  hands  I  lay 

My  weeping  victory. 


[63] 


FIRST  SNOW  ON  THE  HILLS 

THE  hills  kneel  in  a  huddled  group, 
Like  camels  of  the  caravan, 
And  winter  piles  upon  their  patient  backs 
Its  snows. 

And  through  the  desert  of  long  nights  and  days 

I  think  I  see  them  stepping — stepping — 

In  misty  file, 

Toward  the  green  land  of  Spring! 


[64] 


i 


SPRING  COWARDICE 

AM  afraid  to  go  into  the  woods, 
I  fear  the  trees  and  their  mad,  green  moods. 


I  fear  the  breezes  that  pull  at  my  sleeves, 
The  creeping  arbutus  beneath  the  leaves, 

And  the  brook  that  mocks  me  with  wild,  wet  words: 
I  stumble  and  fall  at  the  voice  of  birds, 

At  the  golden  tumult  of  April  stars, 
Touching  to  song  my  silent  scars. 

Think  of  the  rainbow  that  lurks  in  showers, 
Think  of  the  meadows  of  fierce-eyed  flowers; 

And  the  little  things  with  sudden  wings 
That  buzz  about  me  and  dash  and  dart, 
And  the  lilac  waiting  to  break  my  heart. 

Winter,  hide  me  in  your  kind  snow! 
I  am  a  coward,  a  coward,  I  know. 


[65] 


DRINKING-SONG 

WE  lift  our  heads  to  drink, 
Beloved,  you  and  I ! 
Let  others  sink 
Their  faces  to  the  cup, 
Or  bending  lower  still, 
In  thirsty  herds, 
Lap  at  the  drops  we  spill! 

But  you  and  I, 

Like  birds, 

Scorning  the  crowded  brink, 

Up,  up, 

Heads  lifted  to  the  sky, 

From  the  sun's  brim  that  tips 

To  meet  the  laughing  splendor  of  our  lips, 

Will  drink— will  drink! 


[66] 


A  NOTE  FROM  THE  PIPES 

N,  blow  your  pipes  and  I  will  be 
Your  fern,  your  pool,  your  dream,  your  tree! 


I  heard  you  play,  caught  your  swift  eye, 

"A  pretty  melody!"  called  I, 

"Hail,  Pan!" — and  sought  to  pass  you  by. 

Now  blow  your  pipes  and  I  will  sing 
To  your  sure  lips'  accompanying. 

Wild  god  who  lifted  me  from  earth, 
Who  taught  me  freedom,  wisdom,  mirth, 
Immortalized  my  body's  worth, 

Blow,  blow  your  pipes!    And  from  afar 
I'll  come,  I'll  be  your  bird,  your  star, 
Your  wood,  your  nymph,  your  kiss,  your  rhyme, 
And  all  your  godlike  summer-time! 


[67] 


TWO  ON  A  HILL' 

He:     Spring  lies  a  wedding-feast  at  our  feet: 
Beloved  one, 
Drink— eat! 

She:  I  am  so  dazed  with  buds  and  wings, 
So  dizzy  with  high  trees — 
And  the  sky  brimming  its  cloudy  cup 
As  we  climbed  up — 
I  am  so  filled  with  all  good  things, 
Have  drunk  so  deep  of  these: 

And   now   this   height! 

This  pouring  forth 

Of  the  horizon's  bowl 

From  east  to  west  and  south  to  north, 

This  too  tremendous  whole 

Of  width  and  light! 

I  cannot  see. 
My  eyes  are  closed— 
And  you  beneath  the  lids — 
Look,  lover's  eyes,  for  me. 

•This  poem  was  awarded  one  of  the  two  prizes  at  the 
annual  contest  of  the  Poetry  Society  of  America  for  the  two 
best  poems  read  at  the  Society  during  the  year  1919-20. 

[68] 


Two  on  a  Hill 


He:  Green  swirls  across  the  fields, 
Leaping  from  hedge  to  hedge: 
Green  clasps  the  hills  and  dreams  within  the 

wood, 
Green  wrapt  in  dew — 

She,  with  eyes  still  closed: 

As  you  clasp  me  and  as  I  dream  in  you! 

He:     Green  shudders  into  life, 

Everywhere  is  the  pang  of  green. 

She:  I  know  that  pang — 
Beloved,  tell  the  field, 
Tell  every  leaf  and  blade, 
To  yield! 

He:     I  see  a  stream  that  breaks  its  winter  word, 
That  takes  a  new,  wild  vow 
And  lifts  a  new,  wild  cry. 

She:  I  know  that  cry — 

Deep  in  the  night  I  heard 
Its  sudden  murmuring: 
Oh  bid  it  sing! 

He:     I  see  far,  little  squares  of  homes, 
Of  snug,  warm  roofs, 
Red — gray — 

[69] 


Two  on  a  Hill 


She,  opening  her  eyes  and  looking  down: 
Under  the  roofs  is  love 
Alway. 

He:     But  our  strong  roof,  the  swinging  sky, 
And  all  about,  soft-spread, 
The  earth's  eternal  blossoming, 
Our  bed! 

She  sings  on  the  hill: 

The  green  and  the  blue, 
Our  pillow,  our  cover, 
And  close  to  me,  you, 
My  lover! 


The  gold  of  the  sun 
To  nestle  upon: 
Above  us,  below  us, 
Above  us, 
April  to  love  us! 


They  climb  higher. 

He:     The  hill  is  reeling  with  its  own  bold  height, 
But  you  and  I, 
Like  gentle  gods, 
Will  help  it  up  the  sky. 
[70] 


Two  on  a  Hill 


She:  Call  not  so  loud! 

How  soft  the  hill  against  my  breast, 

How  light. 

How  still; 

In  some  white  cradle-cloud 

We  two  will  rock  the  frightened  little  hill 

To  rest. 

They  reach  the  top  of  the  hill.  She  runs  ahead  and 
leaps  onto  an  over-jutting  rock.  He  stands  below  her, 
holding  out  his  arms. 

She  sings: 

I  am  a  leaf  on  the  edge  of  noon, 

Lifting  still  higher: 

I  am  the  tip  of  the  crescent-moon, 

Pointing  my  silver  fire: 

1  am  a  bird  on  the  boughs  of  dawn, 

Singing  a  light  where  no  songs  are, 

I  am  a  falling,  falling  star — 

He,  catching  her  as  she  falls  toward  him: 

I  am  desire! 

******* 
The  sun  slips  down  the  sky. 
[71] 


Two  on  a  Hill 


He:     Shall  we  climb  on? 
Beyond  the  hill  I  see 
A  gleaming  road  that  dips, 
Untrodden  of  cloud  or  star: 
Beloved,  shall  we  journey  there? 

She:  Must  we  climb  on — so  far — ? 
Dear  lips 

That  have  so  weakened  me, 
Oh  weight  of  love  that  I  must  bear- 

The  ferns  are  sweet  to  lie  upon: 
Must  we  climb  on? 
****** 

He:  On — yes — 
And  on — 
Alone — alone — 


She:  I  think  that  we  are  dead, 
And  that  we  float 
Across  a  heaven  all  our  own, — 
Remote — 
Even  from  God — 
Oh  blessed  loneliness — 
»****• 
They  stand  looking  down  into  the  valley. 
[72] 


Two  on  a  Hill 


She:  The  world  is  such  a  tiny  garden 

In  which  to  plant  our  vast  content, 
The  seeds  of  such  full  hours: 

He:     You  are  all  fruits,  all  flowers, 
You  are  the  bough,  the  vine, 
The  sowing  and  the  ripening, 
The  harvesting  divine! 

She:  Gather  me,  harvester  mine! 


He:     How  empty  all  the  valley, 
Its  green  how  vain, 

I  hear  the  meadows  crying  out  their  pain, 
The  tree-tops  droop,  the  birds  are  dumb, 
All  April  fades: 

So  must  I  bring  you  to  the  earth  again, 
Heart  of  mine,  come! 

She:  Yet  am  I  sad  to  go, 
To  leave  the  hill, 
Our  hill, 

God  has  sung  here,  I  know: 
This  is  His  first-created  canticle, 
We  stand  upon  His  morning  melody 
Of  slope  and  peak, 
His  rocky  trill: 

[73] 


Two  on  a  Hill 


He:     We  are  His  song  of  love,  beloved, 
You  and  I! 

She:  Lift  me,  strong  arms,  once  more, 
High  up  against  the  sky, 
That  I  may  kiss  its  blue — 
And  kiss  me — you! 

They  turn  to  descend. 


[74] 


FROM  AN  ISLAND 

The  Island  speaks: 

AM  close-held  to  sea's  salt  strength, 
I  am  wrapt  round  with  sky's  delight, 
The  day  my  neighbor  and  the  night. 


i 


I  am  alone  with  my  wide  thoughts, 
I  am  alone  with  my  high  moods, 
My  mists  and  winds  and  solitudes. 

I  am  the  virgin  of  the  world, 
No  coast  need  reach  a  rocky  hand, 
No  bridge  shall  mate  me  with  the  land. 

I  am  myself,  I  am  my  own, 
I  am  the  quest  within  my  soul, 
I  am  my  answer  and  my  goal. 

I  am  an  island!     And  I  dare 

To  lift  my  loneliness  through  space 

And  talk  with  Godhead  face  to  face! 


[75] 


SEA-FOG 

THE  summer  day  draws  the  grayness  closer 
And  shuts  its  shining  eyes, 
To  the  crooning  of  the  horn. 

Gulls  flap  unevenly  through  the  muffled  hours, 
Spaces  listen  in  hiding. 

And  the  horn, 

Like  an  old  nurse, 

Croons  on  in  wordless  monotone, 

"Ooh— ooh— ooh— " 


[76] 


BELL-BUOYS 

OUT  in  the  dim  harbor 
I  hear  the  sound  of  bells: 
Out  on  the  gray-blue  meadows  of  the  sea, 
I  think  mild  water-cattle  graze 
Among  the  ripples. 


[77] 


SWALLOWS 

THEY  dip  their  wings  in  the  sunset, 
They  dash  against  the  air 
As  if  to  break  themselves  upon  its  stillness: 
In  every  movement,  too  swift  to  count, 
Is  a  revelry  of  indecision, 
A  furtive  delight  in  trees  they  do  not  desire 
And  in  grasses  that  shall  not  know  their  weight. 

They  hover  and  lean  toward  the  meadow 

With  little  edged  cries; 

And  then, 

As  if  frightened  at  the  earth's  nearness, 

They  seek  the  high  austerity  of  evening  sky 

And  swirl  into  its  depth. 


[78] 


GULLS 

FEARLESS  riders  of  the  gale, 
In  your  bleak  eyes  is  the  memory 
Of  sinking  ships: 
Desire,  unsatisfied, 
Droops  from  your  wings. 

You  lie  at  dusk 

In  the  sea's  ebbing  cradles, 

Unresponsive  to  its  mother  mood; 

Or  hover  and  swoop, 

Snatching  your  food  and  rising  again, 

Greedy, 

Unthanking. 

You  veer  and  steer  your  callous  course, 

Unloved  of  other  birds; 

And  in  your  soulless  cry 

Is  the  mocking  echo 

Of  woman's  weeping  in  the  night. 


[79] 


WHEN  BABA  DIVES 

THE  waters  seem  to  rise 
To  meet  that  little  sprawl, 
That  splash  of  resolution, 
Of  joyous  legs  and  arms: 
The  waters  catch  and  play  with  her. 

From  out  the  foam  a  face  blooms, 

Pink  and  wet — 

Bud  of  my  heart! — 

And  there  floats  to  me, 

Widening, 

The  ripples  of  her  smile! 


[80] 


JAZZ  ON  THE  ISLAND 

BEYOND  the  howl  and  hiccough  of  the  tune 
That  marks  the  pattern  for  those  weaving  feet, 
There  is  a  leaning  moon, 
The  little  lapping  waves  are  sweet. 
—"WHOSE  baby  are  you?"— 
0  tangle  of  sure  steps  along  the  hard,  hot  floor, 
When  just  beyond  the  door 
Is  grass  adream  in  silver  dew! 

Deep  in  the  jungle- jazz  they  follow  the  trail 
Of  saxaphone's  high,  shattered  wail, 
They  know  their  way  across  the  noisome  places 
Of  cracking  bell  and  bone  and  drum, 
In  coupled  clasp  they  come, 
Flushed  faces  on  flushed  faces: 
— "Whose   baby  are  you — whose — whose — " 
Over  the  night  spread  stars  and  purple  spaces, 
— "Every  time  my  hubby  leaves  I  get  the  blues — " 
Young    savages    in    flannels,    beads    and    winging 
laces! 


[81] 


D 


ABSOLUTION 

OWN  on  the  sands  I  called  my  sin, 
I  called  aloud  in  the  waves'  wide  din. 


— Now  gray-cowled  sea, 
Absolve  thou  me! — 

I  called  aloud  in  the  sky's  dark  face, 

With  never  a  star  to  plead  for  grace, 

The  rock  and  the  rain  and  the  salt-sweet  wind 

Knew  I  had  sinned. 

0  pompous  cry,  0  puny  sin! 
The  great  waves  laughed  as  they  thudded  in; 
Laughed  and  tossed  from  a  mermaid's  hair 
A  long  green  ribbon  for  me  to  wear. 


[82] 


WATER-PLANE  FLIGHT 

BECAUSE  of  all  the  little  things- 
Little  fair  earth  and  little  sea! — 
On  the  same  roaring  little  wings 
That  held  and  lifted  me, 
I  would  come  back  to  earth  again, 
Closer  to  little  lives  of  men, 
I  would  come  back  to  little  dreams 
After  the  high  reality. 

Because  of  that  loud,  azure  flight, 
I  shall  dream  nearer  God  to-night. 


[83] 


THE  QUEEN-BEE  FLIES 

HIGH  on  the  breeze  flies  the  virgin-queen,  queen  of 
the  hive! 

Across  the  calm  of  skies  and  the  cool  of  trees — she 
flies — she  flies — swifter  than  all  the  others:  and 
they  follow,  the  passionate  bees. 

Over  the  green-gold  stretch  of  wheat  and  rye,  tangled 
and  tied  in  the  blue  of  vetch,  over  the  riot  of 
brown-gold  brook  and  the  quiet  of  brown-gold 
road — see  the  glint  and  gleam  of  her  and  the 
speckled  cloud  of  drones  in  the  cloudless  sky  as 
they  chase  and  dream  of  her! 

Hear  the  whirring  song  of  the  drones,  the  melody  of 
their  fevered  wings — they  stagger  and  fall,  weak 
lings,  despised: 

They  shall  not  know  her,  these  louts  of  the  honey 
comb,  crawling  along  the  fields  and  ruts,  still 
singing  their  heavy  song! 

For  she  has  been  fed  on  a  flower-brewed  wine,  lore 
of  the  hive,  store  of  the  hive,  she  has  been  fed 

[841 


The  Queen-Bee  Flies 


and  bred  a  queen,  she  has  piped  to  the  bees  in 
her  sealed-up  cell  and  heard  them  answer — leav 
ing  their  work,  the  busy  workers,  running,  sway 
ing,  dancing,  drumming,  to  the  tiny  pipe  of  her 
coming! 

Straight   as   a   bird   flies   the   virgin-queen,   queen   of 
the  hive,  and  after  her  all  that  are  fleet  of  wing: 

Only  they  that  are  fleet  of  wing. 

Only  the  strongest  of  all  shall  wed  her, 

Whirl  with  her, 

Swirl  with  her, 

High  in  the  air; 

Mate  with  her, 

Mix  with  her, 

Clasp  and  cling, 

Fly  with  her, 

Die  of  her, 

There  on  the  wing! 

And  out  of  the  sky  she  slips  like  a  falling  star,  for 
the  flight  is  over:  out  of  the  sky  drop  the  drones. 

Over    the    medley    of    buds    unsavored — briar-rose, 
daisy  and  blue-eyed  grasses,  even  the  pink-point 
ing  clover,  best-loved  of  the  bees — the  flight  is 
over,  the  queen-bee  passes. 
[85] 


The  Queen-Bee  Flies 


Back  to  the  hive  now,  bride  and  widow  and  queen, 
mother  of  all  the  hive  to  be;  and  the  drones 
follow  after — all  save  one. 

There  is  a  murmuring  in  the  comb,  a  sound  of  sing 
ing,  of  bees'  laughter,  in  the  honey-comb:  the 
workers  welcome  their  quickened  queen. 

But  after- 
There  is  a  roaring  in  the  comb,  a  sound  of  shrilling, 

of  bees'  anger,  in  the  honey-comb:  the  workers 

sting  to  death  the  useless  drones. 

For  she  will  give  to  the  hive  its  race,  worker  and  drone 
as  she  will,  lover  of  honey  or  lover  of  queen,  she, 
the  mother  of  all  the  hive. 

But  never  again  the  flight!  The  mad,  gay  flight 
through  the  heart  of  June!  Never  again — never 
again — 

The  queen-bee  flies  but  once. 

Does   she   remember   that   bridal-height?      Does    she 

dream  in  her  cell  of  the  sun,  of  the  drones'  fierce 

song?     Or  the  song  of  the  swiftest  drone  of  all, 

who  dared  to  fly  with  her,  dared  to  conquer  her, 

[86] 


The  Queen-Bee  Flies 


Dared  to  die  of  the  pang  supreme? 
Does  she  dare  to  dream? 

After  the  flight  the  long,  long  night  of  the  hive.  The 
queen-bee  gives  to  the  hive  its  race,  worker  and 
drone  as  she  will :  she  seeks  new  hives  as  the  old 
hives  fill — her  scouts  will  find  them,  in  stranger- 
wood,  in  some  hidden  hollow — and  the  old  bees 
follow,  leaving  the  hive  to  the  younger  bees,  the 
hive  and  the  honey  behind  them. 

Four  summers — five  summers  perhaps — and  then — 
She  knows  the  final  flight  of  all. 
La  reine  est  morte!     Vive  la  reine! 

Vive  la  reine. — High  on  the  breeze  flies  the  virgin- 
queen,  on  young,  gold  wings — she  flies — she  flies 
— and  they  follow,  the  passionate  bees! 
*****#* 

Autumn  stands  in  her  russet  meadows — bursting 
thistle,  fern  and  aster  and  goldenrod — where 
still  a  thousand,  thousand  bees  buzz  at  the  cup 
of  summer's  lees. 

Carmelites  of  June,  build  high  those  waxen  temples: 
they  shall  endure. 

[87] 


The  Queen-Bee  Flies 


Fill  them  with  the  honey-souls  of  flowers,  like  saints 
in  their  dim  niches:  they  will  listen. 

Fill  them  with  the  golden  dew  of  all  fields  and  of  all 
times; 

With  a  patient  worship  in  the  dusk  of  your  celibate- 
cells; 

With    your    low,    slow    song,     praising — praising — 
eternity-long! 


[88] 


THE  SILENCE 

1  HEARD  through  tears  my  tearless  songs 
Call  each  to  each  in  woods  of  pain, 
"Sweet  rain — sweet  rain — !" 

I  said,  if  they  can  lift  such  notes 

From  such  dark  boughs,  how  they  will  sing 

Love's  blossoming! 

How  they  will  burst  the  buds  of  sound, 
And  match  the  sun's  gold  flowering, 
How  they  will  sing! 

It  is  not  so!     It  is  not  so! 

There  are  no  tunes  for  my  hushed  birds, 

There  are  no  words. 

Love  is  the  silence  on  God's  lips, 
To  which  my  songs  with  folded  wing 
Lean  listening. 


[89] 


ANSWER 


LOVE,  you  have  broken  my  wings — I  cried- 
And  oh,  the  sky! 
Never,  never  to  lift  me  high! 

Only  the  broken-winged  can  fly. 
Look! — Love  replied. 

Love,  you  have  shattered  the  songs  of  me 

And  oh,  the  pain! 

Never,  never  to  sing  again! 

Singing  lives  on  when  song  is  dead. 
Listen! — Love  said. 


There  is  a  sky  for  a  broken  wing, 
That  I  have  found; 
And  in  the  stillness  after  song, 
There  is  a  Sound! 


[90] 


THE  EGO  CRIES  ITSELF! 

A  VOICE  called  unto  me:  Know  this  thing! 
^JL   I  am  the  voice  of  your  listening, 
Calling  too  loud  for  you  to  hear, 
I  am  your  distance  that  lies  too  near 
For  you  to  see! — 
And  mine  was  the  voice  that  spoke  to  me. 

I  am  the  door  self-barred  that  stands 
Between  your  prisoned  and  prisoning  hands, 
The  uninvited  that  entering, 
Is  host  and  guest  at  his  own  spread  board, 
And  calls  to  himself  his  welcoming. 

The  voice  spoke  on  and  the  voice  was  mine: 

I  am  my  thirst  and  my  poured-out  wine, 

I  am  my  hunger  and  I,  my  bread, 

I  am  the  path  that  my  own  feet  tread; 

Myself  the  master  of  me  the  slave, 

And  my  hand  shall  take  what  that  same  hand  gave. 

Oh  I  am  weary!  the  voice  cried  on: 
I  am  fatigue  that  I  rest  upon, 

[91] 


The  Ego  Cries  Itself! 


I  am  the  pain  that  shall  heal  my  pain, 
I  am  the  loss  that  must  count  its  gain; 
For  I  robbed  my  own  riches!     So  shall  I  be 
A  beggar  that  lives  on  my  charity. 

Now  cried  the  voice  and  I  heard  my  soul: 

I  the  scattered,  contain  the  whole, 

I  am  the  altar  and  altared  there, 

I  am  God  with  God:  and  I  shall  dare 

To  be  my  prayer  and  to  grant  my  prayer ! 

For  I  the  atom,  am  Entity. 

I  am  the  thought  of  the  Thought  to  Be. 

And  the  God  I  created,  created  me. 


[92] 


The  jar  is  sealed: 

Memories — mourners — close  the  tomb, 
Turn  from  the  unechoing  gloom 
Into  the  sounding  day: 
Soul,  freed  and  healed, 
Away! 
The  jar  is  sealed. 


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